Taking the Chocolate
by I'mNotLettingYouPostToFacebook
Summary: A young Mason Verger finds himself in the perfect situation to be cruel at his father's Christian camp and sets in motion a chain of events that will eventually lead to his court-ordered therapy with Hannibal Lecter. Mature themes, but no explicit molestation. Mild language. Originally a solo for the RP account @FoxCameRunning


"What're you in for?" The words issued from the far end of the narrow space between the two staff cabins. It might actually have been a designated smoking area, beyond the gazes of the impressionable campers, though more likely years and years of use had forced those in charge to turn a blind eye. The wood on both sides was pocked with cigarette burns.

The boy who spoke—for he was a boy, a few years older than Mason or not—was tall, a local judging by the infliction of his words, with lank dark hair and a drooping mouth.

Mason Verger plucked the unlit joint from his lip and placed it back in the carton, taking out a cigarette instead. Better for the boss's son not to be caught getting high. He flipped out his lighter and took his time before answering, taking a deep drag and blowing out a stream of smoke in the teenager's direction before speaking.

"I'm not /in/ for anything." His deep, radio-quality voice, the butcher-blue Verger eyes…all that and more should have clued this boy in to who he was. Likely, then, that the boy had never seen Molson Verger, the owner of the camp and Mason's father. "And neither are you. We're here to spread the Lord's word to the children and serve Him." The slight edge of mocking in his words will remain only until his fateful meeting with Doctor Lecter, years from now. "And my father. /Amen/."

That drooping mouth gaped a little. So he had at least /heard/ of who owned the camp on the shores of Michigan and paid the way for each of the one hundred and twenty-five campers. Molson Verger, a man of no small means, political influence, and devotion to the Risen Jesus.

"I don't mean /offence/, Mister Verger…" The kid hastily stubbed out his cigarette on the cabin wall. Mason liked that. Seventeen and short for his age, yet he was /Mister/ Verger. "My parents force me to work here, is all. Three years in a row, now. They say I need to /do/ something with myself."

Three years…that put this boy—Adam McAlester, Mason was now close enough to him to read the nametag in his lanyard—at eighteen or nineteen. Sixteen was the youngest age the camp would employ as junior counselors, CPR certification required. Mason hadn't taken up the post the year previously because he'd fallen ill two days beforehand. But he wouldn't /dream/ of ducking the responsibility on purpose. The private school he attended allowed for frequent absences and he enjoyed taking advantage of that.

"/Doing/ something with yourself is important, certainly." Mason's lip curled when Adam stopped a few feet from him. The boy's skin was as marred as the wood around them, and the camp shirt hung loose on him like a sail. Mason hoped that when they junior counselors were assigned two to a cabin later on, they wouldn't be paired together. "Though I don't—"

Adam frowned at him, until he heard it too. "Shit." Crying, close by…a young child.

Mason turned around and left the way he'd come in, following the sound. The crunch of leaves told him that Adam trailed behind him. He made a low noise of annoyance before stooping to push underbrush aside. There, curled up like a lost fawn, was a boy with a red face and snot under his nose. He turned his head to look at Mason, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

"/Shit/." The expletive reminded Mason that Adam was there, and he shot a scathing look at the other counselor over his shoulder. He offered his hand to the crying child. When the boy didn't reach for him but didn't flinch Mason got down on his knees and, wrapping his arms around the child's waist, pulled him out of the bushes.

The boy stood with some impatient urging from Mason, scrubbing at his face with his clean sleeve. Mason's face reflected his revulsion.

Adam was panicking. "What are we supposed to—?"

"/Quiet!/" Mason snapped, immediately softening his voice when he saw the child flinch. "We'll take him into one of the cabins and figure out what to do there. He's one of ours, obviously, and /someone/ has let him slip away…" The bright red camp shirt that had given away the little boy's position was filthy, smeared with mud as well as the boy's snot. It also was torn on one shoulder with a branch poking out of it. It did /not/ promote the clean, happy image Molson Verger worked so hard to achieve. First things first, find out who had let him wander around unattended. Mason rested his hand lightly on the kid's back and guided him around to the front of the staff cabin, with a nervous Adam trailing behind.

"What's your name?" Mason held the door open for the other two, snapping on the switch. A line of light bulbs in the roof came on, lighting up the cabin. Theoretically only one of the two counselors assigned to a group of campers would sleep in the smaller cabins at a time. The others would sleep here, separated by girls and boys naturally, mixed in with the cooking staff and one or two lifeguards. The boy's cabin was completely deserted.

"Stephen." The boy sniffed hard and wiped at his nose. Mason made a face and gestured to one of the beds. After a moment of hesitation the boy perched on the side of the bed, with Adam looking on. Mason knelt down in front of his own bunk and pulled out the drawer underneath it. Whoever had claimed the top bunk had shoved his own crap on top of Mason's, a mishmash of clothing, three cans of Coke, and a bag of Baby Ruths. All of that was pushed aside in search of a clean shirt that would only end up being too big anyway. With a growl of frustration Mason left the drawer open, taking one of the sodas and popping it open as he paced back to Adam and Stephen.

"What group are you from, Stephen?" What incompetent do I have to haul you back to? "What name did it have?"

"We were the Dodgers."

Baseball names. How quaint. Better than animals, he supposed. "And why aren't you with them now?"

The boy shook his head.  
"Mason—"

Mason glowered at Adam. Apparently he could read nametags. Fantastic. "Make yourself useful and find me a shirt he can wear."

"There were extras in the back…"  
"/Fantastic/. Get him one." Mason turned back to Stephen, dismissing Adam without another word.

"Why aren't you with your group, Stephen?"

"They were mean to me."

"Who was?"

"Jamie and Tyler. The big boys."

Of course. The ages of the children varied from Stephen's age to twelve, and underprivileged children tended to create dog-eat-dog societies amongst themselves.

"How old are you, Stephen?"

"Seven and a half."

"That makes /you/ a big boy, doesn't it?" Adam was returning with a shirt. Mason took it from him with a curt nod. "Someone should tell the people in charge that we've found him. Run up to the big house and inform them? I'll bring him along before they split us into smaller groups."

When Adam was gone, Mason repeated himself to Stephen. The boy just sat there.

"Take off that shirt, then, you're a mess." /You're/ a mess rather than /it's/ a mess. Mason knew the difference it would make. He saw the boy's wince, however slight, and without Adam looking over his shoulder, he smiled. "I don't see why you can't get along with the other boys, then. Did you give them a reason to pick on you?"

"Nah-uh."

"Or is there just something /wrong/ with you? Do you have a wandering eye? /Spots/ on your skin?"

The boy sniffled and held the shirt against himself for a moment before obeying. "/No/." But now the tears were back, and even as he set the shirt on the bed, his thin shoulders began to shake.

The hand holding the clean shirt half extended, then fell back to Mason's side. He set it on the bed across from Stephen's and walked over to the boy. "Hush. Stop crying." He tilted the boy's head up, brushing at the tears with his thumb. Stephen dropped his gaze, but seemed to know better than to pull away.

With dream-like slowness, Mason stood and walked to the front of the cabin, peering out the door. No one in sight.

As he closed it, he raised his thumb to his lips and sucked.

Then, he turned his attention back to Stephen. "Stop crying. I need you to be quite for me…" His gaze fell on the mess spilling out from his drawer, the bag of Baby Ruths.

"Would you like a candy bar?"


End file.
